by Lauren Clark
I could handle my job at the TV station and my husband. For the rest, I needed reinforcements, maybe a small army. I needed my best friend.
Chapter 16
As luck would have it, Candace didn’t answer. Calling or going to see my mother might only make things worse. And even if I had Dr. Phil’s personal cell phone number, I doubted he or his staff would take my calls.
My heart ached. I was kidding myself about everything being fine. Chris and I had really drifted apart. We were standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall off or get pushed. When had this happened?
My memory archives gathered a hazy blur of dirty diapers, baby spit up, fights about sex or no sex. Not to mention Chris’s too-frequent business meetings and my stubborn desire to go back to work—which he didn’t support—once I realized five-year old Kelly wasn’t the least bit fazed about spending her days in the classroom.
No ah-hah moment sprang to mind. Just a steady stream of his-and-her obligations. It seemed like I blinked, and Kelly graduated from grade school, Chris moved up in his firm, and I took on more responsibility at work. I blinked again, and Kelly was driving her red VW Bug out of the driveway to Berkeley.
I liked my life. I loved my husband and my daughter. And if Chris was miserable, he certainly hadn’t mentioned it.
But like the movie Groundhog Day , our lives had become a Bill Murray re-run. These twenty-four hours of our marriage would be a repeat of every other twenty-four hours we’d had for the past ten years. And so on, and so on.
When was the last time we talked? Really had good discussion about meaningful things?
There used to be a time when we never ran out of things to say. Now, I couldn’t seem to keep a conversation going more than a minute.
I began to panic. Candace would have a plan. Candace would have solid, definitive advice. Candace needed to answer her phone.
Wait. I took a moment and channeled my best friend, like we used to when we were kids. We’d practice sending mental signals to each other when it was too late to talk on the telephone. Our secret, pretend channels included WWCD (What Would Candace Do) for boys, gossip, and parental crises, and WWMD (What Would Melissa Do), a dedicated line for algebra test prep and biology answers.
So, WWCD?
I started to laugh. Of course. Her personal philosophy was, “If you’ve big problems to solve, you might as well look great dealing with them.”
The answer, at least temporarily, was shopping.
My own closet was a disaster. Drew had practically told me so. And, hey, it might get some positive attention from Chris. Within minutes, I showered, tied my hair back in a low ponytail, dressed, applied a dash of mascara and a dab of lip-gloss, then bounded down the stairs.
Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Posh Couture , one of the most exclusive shops in town. Society wives, bank president’s daughters, and other prominent women in the community shopped here. Everyone who was anyone.
The owner had a savvy sense of style, bought from chic designers in New York, and carried only a few pieces of each, not dozens in every size. The price tags were exceptional, too.
I sat in the car with the engine running, staring at the window display before I moved a muscle. A tall, slender mannequin, draped in a saffron-colored chiffon blouse, black cigarette pants and four-inch heels stared at me.
My chest tightened.
A tap on my window caused me to shriek like a child at a scary movie. Before I could catch my breath, a tiny blonde with a huge grin appeared, motioning at me. Once my pulse was normal again, I rolled the window down and managed a bright smile.
“Good morning,” the blonde chirped. “Did you think we were closed? I forgot to turn on some of the lights. I’m new. I’m Cher. Come on inside.”
This woman—who didn’t look anything like Cher the singer—wasn’t taking no for an answer. In a wink, she had pulled open the door, taken my arm, and guided me inside Posh Couture . Soft jazz music played in the background. The smell of spiced candles tickled my nose.
Inside was a lush array of fabrics and textures. I brushed my hand along a washed silk suit, and then let my fingertips rest on a cherry red linen jacket. A soft, fluid dress in chestnut brown caught my eye.
“BCBG,” Cher whispered, nodding in approval. Her cheeks flushed pink with excitement as if she were the one doing the shopping.
I glanced at the price tag and felt faint. Cher either didn’t notice my reaction or didn’t care. I steadied myself on a mannequin in a pink Trina Turk sheath.
“Special occasion?” Cher asked, circling with ballerina steps. “Are you a size four?”
“Size eight,” I corrected her, then paused and changed my answer. “Maybe a size six.”
Cher shook her head, her earrings jingling. “Can’t be.”
I caught myself before I disagreed again. “Okay,” I replied in a whisper. “Anyway, I’m going to be anchoring at WSGA, at least temporarily, and I need to look the part.”
Cher nodded thoughtfully, her finger on her lips, as if this was a regular dilemma her customers faced at Posh Couture .
“All right.” Her arm plunged into a rack of blouses. “I’ll get you a few things to try on.”
While she perused the store, we talked about children, family, and school. She’d recently adopted a little girl and was active in the community. She had good manners, and occasionally, even in Macon, that superseded gossip.
Cher steered me to the dressing rooms, plucking items deftly from shelves and countertops as we walked. I started to protest, and then stopped. Why not let someone else worry about what I needed?
Door shut, a palette of colors dangled in front of me. A quick scan of the labels was enough to make me shiver. Tahari, Dolce Vita, Marc Jacobs. I shivered with anticipation, put my back to the mirror, and with a shimmy, tossed my clothes to the floor.
A few minutes later, I was in heaven. A black Ralph Lauren ruffle-front blouse and trousers that clung in all the right places. I fell in love with a jacket, pants and sheer blouse, all Calvin Klein. A bright tangerine Milly cardigan and pants looked divine when I spun around in front of the three-way mirror.
Cher paired a Diesel jacket over a leather Michael Kors skirt—fun, but too much for small town TV. Jones New York, DKNY, and Ellen Tracy all started to blend together. An array of jeans, shoes, flats, heels, and sandals decorated the floor of the dressing room.
After two hours, I was exhausted and exhilarated. Customers had come and gone, the cash register sang, the bells on the door jingled, the phone rang.
“Help,” I laughed to Cher. “Get me out of here.”
Cher stopped and put her hands on her hips. “What’ll it be?” A smile played on her lips. She was no pressure and I loved that.
“I adore everything. You have a gift!”
Cher blushed. “The clothes are perfect for you!” She winked. “And your job.”
“Thanks. But the job is short-term, at least for now. I have to do a lot of convincing.” With a heave, I lifted part of my new wardrobe onto the counter. “This is a major part of it. A fresh start. The new me.”
Cher scurried behind me, snapping up loose shoes and skirts from chairs and the floor. “Can I be honest?” Her face took on a serious expression.
I nodded and shrugged, handing her my credit card. Before she could take it, I changed my mind and offered Chris’s plastic instead.
She was probably going to tell me I didn’t have a prayer in the world of anchoring full-time in Podunk, USA, let alone here. A face for radio. What everyone always said about anchors who looked a little horsey or weren’t quite thin enough.
Cher took a deep breath and started ringing up the clothes. A few customers floated by, we made small talk. When the last pair of shoes had been rung up and bagged, I strained to see the total. Instead, Cher came around the counter to where I was standing.
“You see, the thing is.” Cher’s voice strained to a stop. “My sister owns this shop.”
>
I felt a tug of empathy while she struggled to keep her emotions in check.
Cher swallowed hard and tried to continue. “Five years ago, I was drifting from job to job, crashing with friends when I could, practically homeless.” Cher’s eyes welled up with tears.
Her confession threw me. I blinked and tried hard to hide my surprise. “Oh,” was all I could manage, trying to picture the petite girl in front of me sleeping in the streets. It was horrifying. What if this was Kelly? I shook off the thought, promising myself she was fine.
Cher wiped at her lashes with the back of one fingernail.
“My sister gave me a second chance when no one else would,” she continued. “She made me finish my degree and had me come live with her. She helped me re-invent myself. Just like you said, a fresh start. I adopted a little girl, bought a house. I have a good life.”
Tiny goose bumps dotted my arms. Re-inventing Melissa.
“When I talked about change, making over my life, my sister always used to remind me that it’s what’s inside that really counts.” Cher pointed to her heart. “So, the clothes will help.” She touched my hair lightly and cocked her head. “Highlights and a great cut would make a big difference. But true change comes from within.”
I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. I winced, stepped back, and frowned, biting my lip at how right she was.
Cher patted my hand and went back around the register, putting three feet of counter between us. “Sorry, I always talk too much. My sister says I should have been a talk show host or a psychologist. It’s none of my business.”
Her apology softened my initial reaction. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not off the mark.” I ruefully ran a hand over my ponytail. “My hair could use some updating,” I admitted.
We grinned at each other.
“I believe this. If you make change for the right reasons, everything else will fall into place,” Cher added. “It did for me.”
Believe. Was it that simple? And what were the right reasons? Because it was a challenge? Did I have something to prove to Chris? Did I think my mother might be impressed?
“Thank you,” I said sincerely, thinking that this was turning out to be one of the strangest and most expensive shopping trips I’d ever had, and Chris would ever pay for.
Cher stretched out her arm and handed me the receipt and a pen. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes before looking at the total.
She giggled and slapped her hands together. “It’s not that bad. I promise.”
How could she promise? She wasn’t paying for it. I opened one eye a slit and looked at the black line above where I needed to sign my name.
She was right. Not bad. Not bad at all. Chris might only need blood pressure medicine, not hospitalization for heart failure. Eyes twinkling, Cher winked again. “The fifty percent family discount does wonders.”
Chapter 17
My car trunk was loaded down, and I pulled out of the parking lot of Posh Couture , satisfied that Cher’s wardrobe choices would show off the new and improved me.
Stage One transformation: Complete.
Stage Two: This was where Candace came in. I hit her number on speed dial, praying she’d finally answer.
“Crisis central.” Candace quipped. She had such a knack for making me laugh.
“Your crisis or mine?” I was interrupted by ear-piercing shrieks in stereo. “Are those happy screams?”
“Let’s see,” Candace replied after a door closed firmly in the background. “Sure. Happy screams, yes. The girls just found a lizard in the laundry basket. Daddy’s taking our new little friend outside. How’s your day been?”
“Fabulous,” I bubbled and gave her the quick and dirty version of my shopping escapade.
“Nice,” Candace agreed, without a trace of jealousy. I loved her for that. Then again, her closet was probably full of the same designer clothes I’d just bought. “I want to see all of it!”
“Done,” I said.
“Meet me for some dinner? I want to hear all about what else happened at the station. Marcus can keep the kids,” she whispered. “The promise of a little nooky later will do wonders.”
I could have hugged her. Candace was my safety belt on life’s merry-go-round, my conscience, and keeper of all juicy secrets.
“That sounds wonderful. But first, I need a favor…”
“Now, start from the beginning,” she commanded with a sweep of her hand.
Hitting the high points, I recapped last night’s drama—some of which she had seen—the punch, the spattered blood, then Alyssa’s attention-getting antics, and Drew’s reaction. I ran through the breakfast fiasco, Chris hidden behind the newspaper, speaking only in grunts, and my worry about filling in on the anchor desk.
“And his only concern,” I rolled my eyes dramatically and leaned back in Candace’s chair, “was whether or not I could get his shirts from the dry cleaners.”
“Uh-oh.” Candace clucked her tongue, one hand on the denim hip of her Joe’s Jeans. Her blue eyes flashed and she tapped the heel of her Jimmy Choos on the ceramic tile floor.
“I told him, ‘Get your own dry cleaning.’”
Candace’s eyes widened. She stepped back and did a double take. One hand flew to her mouth. Her huge diamond engagement ring caught the light and winked at me, as if to say: Nice going. Now say goodbye to your marriage.
My stomach cramped. I envisioned Chris, furious, packing his suitcases. It had happened once, a long time ago. Would he leave again? Over something so minor?
“You said that?” Candace finally managed to choke the words out.
I bobbed my head and stared at the toes of my scuffed suede Borns, suddenly wishing I could hit a rewind button and take back the day, or at least the morning. If I worried long enough, even the new clothes hidden in the trunk of the car would start to take on a sour note.
“Maybe I should call him and tell him I’m sorry,” I said, chewing my lower lip. Candace knew what had happened last time.
Before I could continue beating myself up, Candace let out a whoop and slapped the side of her thigh. She laughed so hard she doubled over and tears streamed out of her eyes.
Candace gasped for breath and steadied herself. “You’re way overreacting. And he’ll get over it.” Wiping her cheeks, she bit her bottom lip. “Melissa, was he listening to you?”
I didn’t want to answer.
“I don’t know, not really,” I said slowly. “He was in a hurry, and he’s under a lot of pressure at work, but—”
The moment I opened my mouth to defend Chris, Candace shot me a searing look. “Don’t whine to me and then pretend everything’s hunky-dory. You always tell me that Chris won’t talk about work; he won’t talk about his parents. He’s part of the problem, but so are you. Neither one of you want to communicate. Something’s gotta give.”
I knew what was coming next. The Dr. Phil lecture: “If you don’t want to change your life, quit complaining about it.” I’d heard it so much I could give the talk myself.
Candace and Dr. Phil made it all sound so logical. But what if things were so awful they couldn’t be fixed? My mind raced with the possibilities, insecurities mounting like storm clouds ready to burst with rain. No. It had to stop. I was being irrational and needy, two things I hated.
“Enough is enough, right?” The words escaped before I could stop them.
Candace cocked her head and studied me. “Enough what…?”
“Enough worrying, enough feeling sorry for myself, enough being afraid—”
Okay, I was running out of reasons. Breathless but happy, I looked up at Candace, who beamed back at me. I had just given myself permission to live my life. Just like that.
“It’s okay to change. To re-invent myself.”
“Good.” Candace nodded approvingly and winked. “Now what about that favor?”
Chapter 18
We bent our heads over a dozen hairstyle magazines, ripping out shots of R
eese, Victoria Beckham, and Cameron Diaz. None seemed quite right. I had been on the darker side of brunette forever, my stubborn refusal to change over the years.
Until she found it.
Without a word, Candace held up a page. I had to admit—it was attention getting—without being off the charts wild. It was a cut that grazed the shoulders, accented with just the right amount of highlights. The stylist had added a bit of fringe around the eyes and jaw. Best of all, it wasn’t too drastic and had just enough movement to make it look touchable, yet professional.
The shade decided it for me in the end: Rich chestnut brown, with gold and caramel intertwined. The model’s coloring even matched mine, pale cream, with hazel eyes that seemed to pop off the page.
“It’s perfect,” Candace breathed.
I didn’t want to ask if she could do it, for fear she’d say no, or slap me silly.
Without another word, she left the room. Candace banged around, poured and mixed, humming to herself the entire time. Five minutes later, she reappeared, swathed in a black apron, a bowl of hair goop in each hand and a gleam in her eye.
She went to work, each strand on my head pulled and pasted into submission.
Twenty minutes later, foils in, and a clear plastic bag over my head, we waited for the chemicals on my hair to work their magic.
Candace settled into an ecru velvet couch in the front of the store. I perched next to her on an overstuffed chair. In the quiet of the salon, we toasted our progress with some wine.
As the glasses clinked together, and we watched traffic sail by the window, I suddenly realized I had monopolized ninety percent of the conversation since screeching into the parking lot and unloading every bit of my personal baggage.
Thank goodness for best friends. For true friends, the ones who love you no matter what. Even with foil in your hair, looking every bit the Martian bride. I was lucky to have Candace. Really fortunate.